After 13 years of living together with my daughter in a big old house in NE Portland, with my two grandchildren, it’s time for us to part ways. The children are grown and my daughter is seeking her freedom.
If it were plausible and possible, I would stay here for the rest of my life. But now that I’m 77 years old, it’s time for me to have found cheaper digs and fewer stairs.
I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I’m full of trepidation about my physical well – being. I survived polio at 5 years old that left me with a weak right arm, the deltoid not having survived the paralysis. I also survived a terrible bout with cancer and 8 months of chemo when I was 56 years old. One does not escape cancer or chemo unscathed.
I’ve had a very eventful and adventurous life. I went full bore into it. Because of this, my body, my soul, my head and my heart are full of memories. I realize now that there are fewer years ahead of me than are behind me and I fully enjoy reminiscing and writing about my life.
I have said this before and I’ll say it again. I’m not afraid of dying, but I am afraid of living. Age is taking its toll on me with crackling joints and weakening muscles, a slower and less elegant gait and increasing girth.
I understand fully our vulnerability. We are assailed on all sides by decline and a world made very scary by other humans, natural disasters and accidents and by other living things and the intervention of technology. But I have lived bravely and brightly.
So because of my age, I admit to some fear about moving on my own into unfamiliar territory and at this age, when I am not in my prime… not even close to it. And we are living in uncertain times. Let’s not get into politics, except to say:
I would be foolish to not wonder if this country will continue to support me with MY Social Security and MY retirement fund, which I have earned and are not a hand out from the government.
What began this story was when a friend asked if I were worried about my daughter going basically on her own without children and without me. I responded with a resounding, NO! and here’s why:
At her age, I had been divorced. Had started going to university. Spent a year in Mexico, including a semester at the University of Queretero and traveled throughout Mexico with the curator of the Museum of Art of the same cty.
Upon returning I had an amazing 3 year affair with a beautiful Cuban. Moved to Tallahassee on a fellowship, traveled cross country on a train. I found shortly after one semester that the deep south was not for me.
So I moved to Santa Monica to attend UCLA on another fellowship. By that time, I had finished 11 years of university at 5 different schools. I moved back to Portland and started a beautiful career at OHSU as their first and only professional archivist, retiring after 16 years.
When I moved back to Portland, I moved my mother in with me. Fell for an Indian Sikh. Had cancer and survived surgery, and 8 months of chemo. My mother and I lived together 8 years when she passed away. She stayed at home with me until the day she passed.
Since moving back to Portland, I had moved 4 times by the time I moved in here with my daughter. And now, here I am, moving again, not totally by choice.
So do I have any worries concerning my daughter?
She is made up of the same stuff as I am and maybe more. It’s her story so without giving any detail, I will just say, she got her massage therapy license while she raised two children alone and finished her BS degree. She’s now Spa Drector where she has worked as lead therapist for 14 years. She supports herself. She’s physically healthy and strong.
Nope, I’m not worried about her at all, any more than any mother would. For sure this is more about me than about her. But when my friend asked, if I was worried about this time of change, it caused me to reflect on life. Actually, I look forward to hearing about her adventures from here on out, about her brave and bright life.
I can’t believe I’m able to do this. I can’t believe that day after day, I can put one foot in front of the other and put one thing in a box, and one thing in a bag, and end the day, still putting things in bags and boxes.
Useless, precious, beautiful objects of my affection. Proof of my existence. And one day no one will care for them nor remember me.
This hard work and I still don’t know what the hell I’m doing or where I’m going. And even less whatI I’m supposed to be doing or where I should be going. I try not to think about it too much. I just keep doing.
This is how I’ve lived my life. When a door opens, I just go in. Not putting much thought into it. And here I am getting closer and closer to the end of my life and still living the same way. But more aware than ever of futility.
And now worry stalks me like a dangerous and silent cat in the wild would. I am it’s prey and it, my predator.
I think it’s always been with me. I used to not notice it. But these days, I’m made aware of it by weakness creeping in, by my slowing gait, by increasing frailty.
I’m aware of its footsteps falling almost imperceptible except for a rare snap of a twig, or a small tumble of a stone. but still closely behind. I’m beginning to hear it’s heavy breathing when I hush. I hear its snuffling at my foot prints left in the soft soil I call my life.
It is there in the night with only the stars and the moon as my companions… no protection at all but, I remind myself, I still can call up fire. But it never rests and so neither can I. I can sometimes see its eyes glowing in the flickering flames.
During the daylight hours, I am distracted mostly, but these days, not like in the past. What will I do when I can no longer move forward, when I must lay down, when rest is needed more than life itself?
Then I will lie down. Then worry and wonder and unknowing will no longer stalk me. Then I will rest. Then, I will no longer need the strength that now I do.
So now, before I lay me down, I will put some more things in bags and I will put some more things in boxes.
Good night, big and beautiful and wild cat. I hear you breathing softly.
eyeamdust 